


a shot of memories

by ospreyx



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alcohol, Drunken Kissing, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:42:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29959074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ospreyx/pseuds/ospreyx
Summary: Taiyang doesn’t know how they got there, when this happened, which one of them started it. Clarity comes in bits and pieces, time and time again, only distantly aware of the fingers that trail down his torso, catch against the hem of his shorts, fumble with the zipper.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Taiyang Xiao Long
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	a shot of memories

**Author's Note:**

> it's my comfort character and i get to choose the trauma ♡
> 
> read the tags. heed the warnings. dead dove: do not eat, or whatever

Taiyang doesn’t drink.

Or rather, he _didn’t_ drink, but it’s been a few months of sleepless nights wondering where he went wrong and he’s stopped caring. He used to, back in Beacon when he was the one who would stay sober enough to drag the flock back to their dorm. He used to care, but it’s been a few months with feathers left in his nightstand and a titanium ring hidden just underneath them, and he still can’t convince himself to forget Raven.

Taiyang misses her, and that isn’t a secret. Misses the way she spoke, misses the way she _hurt_ while she was still around, and that was never a secret. 

But those echo memories seem to wither away the further this night drags on. He doesn’t remember how he got there, but that’s the point; he doesn’t remember much of anything. Doesn’t remember the dark places his mind tends to wander to, doesn’t remember the ache in his chest, doesn’t remember pale skin and blood red eyes and a permanent scowl. 

It’s late into the evening, and he doesn’t remember when Qrow got there, when he put Yang to bed, when the sun finally set. He isn’t sure which one of them opened the second bottle or which one of them brought out the third. Those lakewater echoes of broken promises start to dim and quiet with every shot he knocks back, and for once, he can see the appeal.

For once, Taiyang thinks he can understand why Qrow drinks.

It’s definitely a problem for future Taiyang to handle. It’s a problem for hungover Taiyang to mull over and mope about, because he broke the one promise he made to himself. But if there is anything Raven taught him, it’s that promises are made to be broken. 

And if there is one thing that Qrow is teaching him now, it’s that promises aren’t the only things made to be broken.

Taiyang should care, but he doesn’t - he _can’t_. Can’t bring himself to care when there’s stars behind his eyes and clouds thick in his head. Fingers in his hair, but they don’t yank, don’t demand, only weave and pull and coax. Lips against his own, hot and messy, and he doesn’t remember how they got there, when this happened, which one of them started it.

In a way, there’s peace, but it isn’t for Taiyang. There hasn’t been peace in a long while. Not since Yang was born. Not since Raven left. Not since Qrow disappeared for a few weeks afterwards, presumably to find his other half, then returned with nothing but a flask and dry patches under his eyes. 

For now, there’s peace in the sense that there is quietude; Taiyang isn’t thinking, not anymore, and that’s the only thing he can ask for anymore. There’s peace like that of the calm before the storm, in which he recognizes it as a temporary thing. It’s something delicate like glass, fleeting like the summertime breeze, there for a short while before it finally breaks.

He isn’t sure which one of them started it. He doesn’t remember how they got here, or when the bottle tipped over and spilled out onto the carpet, or when the buttons of his shirt were plucked loose. One of the worst things about Raven leaving is that he’s alone. He’s alone for long days and even longer nights, alone when he’s drinking, alone unless Qrow is there to reap the benefits of free booze.

Taiyang’s always alone nowadays.

Sometimes, he thinks he prefers it. 

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy Qrow’s company like this; it’s been a few years since they’ve been like this, not drunk out of their minds but hidden somewhere quiet with their hands roaming, lips searching, heat pooling until they share one breath. It’s that he isn’t thinking anymore, isn’t even really sure if he’s been awake for most of it, and by the time he realizes that, his shirt’s already off.

Taiyang shoves against Qrow’s chest, just barely strong enough to give Qrow pause. He says something that’s slurred to no end, something like _wait, stop_ , but all Qrow does is nudge his hands aside. Clarity comes in bits and pieces, time and time again, only distantly aware of the fingers that trail down his torso, catch against the hem of his shorts, fumble with the zipper. 

He’s barely conscious, flitting just beneath the surface of it, and maybe it’s a dream, maybe it’s a fantasy, but the lips against his throat and hand on his cock is anything but. He closes his eyes again, tries to ground himself, but it falls through quickly. He swears it’s only for a moment, but that moment drags further, tilts left, leaves him drowning before he can stop it.

It’s an elusive thing, this sliver of clarity he can’t quite grasp, this echo-memory of a reality that is miles away from him now. When he comes to again, it’s slow and lethargic like melting glass, like running pitch, like an open wound left to weep. Qrow’s head is pressed to his shoulder, his hand reaching behind him, his cock grinding languidly against Taiyang’s with every thrust of his fingers.

Taiyang’s legs don’t move like he wants them to, hands don’t coordinate as well as he wishes they would. Qrow makes a broken little sound, and Taiyang hates the way it ignites a fire under his skin, hates the way it adds to the pinpricks of pleasure simmering between his hips. He squirms anew, nudges against once bicep, but all Qrow does is shrug him off.

“Stop fuckin’ moving,” Qrow mutters, but it’s far too clear and concise for someone who drank as much as he has.

Maybe the tolerance to alcohol should’ve been expected, Taiyang belatedly realizes, when Qrow’s had a flask on him since the day he enrolled at Beacon.

Something about that is distinctly harrowing, but it’s a faraway thing now, a peril removed from him, a lone siren left to wail in empty streets. He doesn’t mean to close his eyes again. He doesn’t mean to drift, doesn’t mean to lose himself, but he does. He’s lost in oceans deep, drifting somewhere dark and obscure, flitting mindlessly until the riptide of consciousness brings him back.

The next patch of clarity is more sudden and jarring than the last. What registers first is the ecstasy that builds and pulses, a heat like none other that pools distantly in his gut. He can feel it beneath his skin, in his blood, through his core; with it comes the dim awareness of the trembling breaths against his throat and the heat that clenches around his cock with each jerky bounce.

Taiyang clumsily shoves against Qrow’s shoulders - slurs out something that’s muffled in his own ears, something like _stop_ , something like _get off me_. He blinks, loses himself to a fading tide, an abyssal eternity, and when he opens them again, Qrow’s hands are around his wrists, pinning them above his head with a white-knuckled grip.

Qrow pauses to grind on Taiyang’s dick, slow and languid, perhaps a necessary reprieve to get his bearings. He isn’t drunk, that much Taiyang can recognize, but he certainly isn’t sober; it isn’t long before he’s moving again, not as frantic as before but just as maddening. Taiyang strains, but his arms won’t listen, head won’t stop spinning, vision won’t stop blurring long enough to push Qrow off.

His eyes fall shut once more, but he doesn’t drift off just yet. He’s an outsider to the pleasure, only vaguely aware of the sound of skin against skin, of the ragged noise that Qrow makes when he finds the right angle. He feels the breath that ghosts over his lips, almost a kiss, but he turns his head and sends Remnant spiralling with him. He slurs more words that Qrow won’t hear, makes more pleads that Qrow won’t listen to.

His blood doesn’t rush white-hot in his veins, instead flowing sedimentary, simmering rather than boiling, brimming rather than spilling. He hates the undignified sound that spills from his lips unbidden, too ragged to be a moan, too broken to be a whine. The world starts to slip out of focus again, its axis long since shattered, with nothing left for him to grasp but the mounting heat that pools low in his gut and the tears that well at the corners of his eyes.

He doesn’t continue to beg. He doesn’t continue to squirm against the hips that move hard and fast against his own. He doesn’t think he can even if he wanted to. He only closes his eyes and wills the disgust, the _hurt_ , to fade alongside every rational thought.

He closes his eyes and wills the distant sound of his body being used to cease until he’s finally swept away.

* * *

The first thing that registers is the insistent pulsing in his head.

It’s a wretched ache with a heartbeat, flowing in quickly like the rush of seafoam against a desolate beachside. There’s a renewed axis that the world begins to spin from, sharp and thrumming at Taiyang’s temples, and before he’s ready for it, he’s already being forced awake. A soft groan leaves him as he turns over onto his side, the rapid beat of his heart pounding against his sternum the only thing he hears for a long while.

Faintly, he starts to pick up on the sounds that come from the kitchen. The tinker of dishes, the sound of the oven timer going off, a familiar voice. Taiyang focuses on that alone; he knows, just by the accompanying screech that can only be Yang’s laughter, that it’s Qrow in the kitchen.

There’s a sense of dread that accompanies the realization - he isn’t sure why, at first, isn’t sure what it is that eludes him, isn’t sure what exactly happened the night before. He remembers the moping, the drinking that started before the sun even set, the tears he shed before he could stop them and the half-slurred conversation that followed.

Taiyang hears the sizzle of eggs and bacon, hears the way Qrow talks to Yang as he cooks, hears the gravel of it, the murmur, the familiarity both a blessing and a curse. He isn’t sure why, isn’t sure where the renewed nausea comes from - it’s something he can’t quite grasp, something that sits just out of reach, something that might sound like Qrow’s growl to _stop fuckin’ moving_ -

Taiyang squeezes his eyes shut. The pounding in his head only worsens, and he lets out another wavering groan. Whatever echo memories of the night before fall from his grasp like a fleeting summertime breeze, touching briefly against his mind before it finally fades into obscurity. He can worry about that later.

For now, he reaches for the aspirin and water conveniently left out for him on his nightstand, then wills himself to get out of bed.

It takes a while, but eventually, he emerges from his bedroom. The first thing he sees is Qrow at the stove with Yang on his hip. He pauses when their eyes meet, and already, Taiyang recognizes the gleam in his eye - not drunk, not anywhere close to it, but not sober, either.

But he’s still there. Still trying, still picking up the pieces, still keeping track of Yang while no one else is there to. He isn’t perfect, but neither is Taiyang, if the fleeting whispers of the night before is anything to go by. Taiyang isn’t sure what it is that passes over Qrow’s face. It might be guilt, might be pain, but it’s gone as quickly as it arrives. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s something else.

Idly, Qrow asks, “Something wrong?”

Taiyang wavers, but ultimately, he shakes his head.

He doesn’t have to worry, he decides. Qrow would tell him if something happened.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hello to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ospreyxxx) ✨


End file.
